pursuit. A pause--a shot--another--an oath--a groan--and all was still.

"It's all up with him now," said one of the runners, in the distance;
"he dies game."

At these words, the peasant, who had before skulked behind the haystack,
seized the lanthorn from the ground, and ran to the spot. The banker
involuntarily followed.

There lay Luke Darvil on the grass--still living, but a horrible and
ghastly spectacle. One ball had pierced his breast, another had shot
away his jaw. His eyes rolled fearfully, and he tore up the grass with
his hands.

The officers looked coldly on. "He was a clever fellow!" said one.

"And has given us much trouble," said the other; "let us see to Will."

"But he's not dead yet," said the banker, shuddering.

"Sir, he cannot live a minute."

Darvil raised himself bolt upright--shook his clenched fist at his
conquerors, and a fearful gurgling howl, which the nature of his wounds
did not allow him to syllable into a curse, came from his breast--with
that he fell flat on his back--a corpse.

"I am afraid, sir," said the elder officer, turning away, you had a
narrow escape--but how came you here?"